


A Light from Within

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Humor, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is Geralt's #1 Fan in the Universe, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, Multi-millionaire Geralt, OTP Feels, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Tattoo Artist Jaskier, Tattooed Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26340892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: "Jaskier," Geralt murmured, tracing the gold letters with his thumb.The name flowed over his tongue like the refreshing waters of a clear river. He whispered it to himself—and under his bespoke three-piece suit, he felt a frisson of excitement down his spine like lightning.He was fated to be here. Out of all the tattoo parlors in this massive city, destiny had decided to stop his Bentley on this street when Ciri had called his mobile, when a parking spot had opened up right there and then.He was fated to be here—to meet Jaskier. To know him.___________________________________Geralt, a reclusive multi-millionaire, gets a tattoo as a gift for his daughter, Ciri. Intrigued by the lute on a tattoo parlor's signboard, he chooses it--and meets its artist, a beautiful, tattooed man called Jaskier.(Originally a Twitter fic at@giddytf2, reformatted for easier reading here on AO3.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 332
Collections: Oneshots





	A Light from Within

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a Twitter fic at @giddytf2 [here](https://twitter.com/giddytf2/status/1301908620875980800). I think 8000+ words are much easier to read here on AO3 after the required reformatting, haha. 😭 (I apologize to my Twitter followers for the massive influx of tweets throughout my live posting of the story.)

Geralt was still stumped about Ciri's choice for his first tattoo as he stood alone outside the tattoo parlor. Surprised too, since he hadn't known she was fond of buttercups in any way.

But a sprig of golden buttercups was what she wanted, and it was what she was going to get.

A tattoo had felt right as a gift for his adopted, young daughter. It was permanent, like his choice to be her father. To be her protector for life.

She'd lost her entire blood family before destiny crossed his path with hers. The adoption agency had refused to give him details.

His immense monetary wealth secured that information elsewhere via private investigation: they'd all been murdered. She'd survived by fleeing from her home and hiding in the woods for days, eating berries and drinking from a stream.

Her blonde hair turned ashen grey after that.

When they'd met each other at the agency, she'd stared at his long, white hair. At his amber eyes with such ancient, green ones.

He'd opened his arms without pause as she darted to him. Hugged her tight to his torso, and felt his throat constrict in a way it hadn't in decades.

Their souls recognized each other. Recognized the pain the universe had doled out to change them, to make them so different from countless other people in the world.

Despite his hundreds of millions in money, he knew what it'd been like to be poor. To be ostracized. To be hated.

It wasn't his fault he had such colorless hair and such odd eyes since he was a boy. It wasn't Vesemir's fault either: his guardian, the closest father figure he'd ever have, had simply wanted to save his life when all other medical options had failed.

He was grateful to live.

He could see the irony now of how his appearance had kept others at bay but actually helped him maintain his privacy. Very few people today were aware of his identity or how rich he was. Easy enough to claim his hair was the inevitable result of old age, his eyes contact lenses.

"Dad, so many kids use cool Korean contact lenses," Ciri had once said. "Your eyes are, like, totally normal."

She'd pointed out that he could always wear lenses with some ordinary color if his eyes bothered him so much. But—he never did.

She'd told him how pretty they were.

She'd accepted him for him the moment they'd met.

One day, in the distant future, he had a smidgen of hope that he would be able to accept himself as he was, too.

He drew in a deep, long breath. Adjusted his silk tie. Gazed up at the tattoo parlor's intricate signboard.

It was called The Inkwell. The simple name looked handwritten with black ink. What made him raise an eyebrow was the skillful drawing of a lute next to the name.

A lute surrounded by sprigs of buttercups.

Why would a tattoo parlor choose a _lute_ of all things to represent it?

He was curious. He wanted to know the reason.

He wanted the artist in this particular parlor to be the one to bestow upon him his first tattoo.

It felt—right, like it'd felt right when he'd tapped on Ciri's profile, looked the adoption agent in the eye, and said, _my daughter_.

The parlor's door swung open with a tune from a door buzzer. His lips quirked up at the lively plucking of a string instrument instead of the usual automated ding. A lute, perhaps.

"Sorry, I'll be with you in a minute!"

The mellifluous voice emanated from the back of the parlor.

Ah, the tattoo artist was a man.

Geralt sauntered over to the small, L-shaped reception counter facing the front door. He plucked a business card from a stack of them on the counter. The same handwritten logo was printed on it.

It also stated the tattoo artist's name in serif.

"Jaskier," Geralt murmured, tracing the gold letters with his thumb.

The name flowed over his tongue like the refreshing waters of a clear river. He whispered it to himself—and under his bespoke three-piece suit, he felt a frisson of excitement down his spine like lightning.

He was fated to be here. Out of all the tattoo parlors in this massive city, destiny had decided to stop his Bentley on this street when Ciri had called his mobile, when a parking spot had opened up right there and then.

He was fated to be here—to meet Jaskier. To know him.

"Oh gods, I'm sorry, had a bit of a spill there and—"

The dark-haired man who emerged from a tiny office at the back of the parlor was still talking, but Geralt couldn't hear the rest of it.

He was too busy staring at the dark-haired, _beautiful_ man who had to be Jaskier.

He stared at those bright, blue eyes crinkled at the corners. At the blinding smile that lit Jaskier up inside and out. At that long, pale neck encircled by leather.

At the loose, white tank top with a collar so low that it revealed a firm, hirsute chest and its dusky pink nipples.

He stared at the incredible tattoos covering Jaskier's arms from wrist to shoulder. He saw a lifelike lark on the right bicep, its head held high, its iridescent wings spread in triumph. On the left bicep was the same lute on the signboard, surrounded by more detailed buttercups.

Leafy vines spiraled down sinewy forearms. Between the vines were objects that seemed random: a leather-bound notebook, a black quill, a pair of worn boots. The most eye-catching was the head of a white wolf that gazed at the viewer with large, fearless eyes.

Large, amber eyes.

For one torturous second, Geralt considered sprinting out of the parlor. He couldn't believe the tattoo of the white wolf was mere coincidence—but it had to be.

No one except Vesemir and his brothers, Eskel and Lambert, knew about the nickname he'd given himself as a child.

The absurd nickname he clung to after his near-fatal medical treatment that physically marked him: the White Wolf.

He'd imagined himself as a white-haired, amber-eyed hero in another universe, where he was powerful, where he hunted beasts and made the world a safer place.

Where songs were written about him, and made people see him for the person he was, not the monster they saw.

What were the chances of this dark-haired, beautiful man knowing any of that?

Zero.

It had to be.

But if that was so—here he was, at another pivotal point in life.

He could turn around. Walk out the door. It was his right to do so. He could remain the mysterious, multi-millionaire recluse the tabloids wallowed in branding him.

Or—he could stay. He could stay right where he was. Say hello. Show Jaskier Ciri's drawing. Get the tattoo.

He could stay, and get to know Jaskier. Gaze at that appealing, youthful face a little longer, at that dark chest hair he yearned to slide his fingers through. Change part of his body by his choice, not by illness.

Stay, and make a new friend.

And not feel so lonely anymore.

A profound hush now reigned in the parlor. Jaskier was staring at him, lips parted, eyes so wide a sliver of white ringed those vivid blues.

It was the reaction Geralt had expected.

The reaction whenever someone saw him for the first time: a stunned expression, stunned silence.

It made him loathe the paparazzi even more for constantly stalking him and doing their damnest to snap photos of him. Eskel had told him he had "online fan clubs" dedicated to _gushing_ about his face and body—which was utterly mad, of course. Eskel enjoyed teasing him that way.

Who in the right mind would even wish to gaze at him for long? Much less extol his freakish appearance?

Jaskier was still staring at him in stunned silence.

Was he _that_ ugly to the tattoo artist?

He squared his shoulders. Tugged the front hems of his jacket. Cleared his throat.

Jaskier jolted as if he'd been electrocuted. Within seconds, his pale, smooth cheeks turned an astounding shade of red.

Geralt would have found the ensuing stammering and flailing of hands to be annoying from anyone else. From Jaskier, it was—like watching a big puppy be cute.

"Oh, uhm, I—" Geralt was amazed at the elasticity of Jaskier's face as it shifted through a gamut of expressions. "I'm sorry—that was very rude of— _oh_ —"

The flustered man slapped both hands over his own mouth.

The tattooed white wolf now stared at Geralt upside-down.

For reasons beyond his comprehension, this tickled him pink. It was a good omen.

Straight-faced, Geralt watched Jaskier walk to the reception counter to stand behind it. When Jaskier lowered his hands, that appealing face was still tomato-red—and rivaled his deadpan expression.

"Hello, I'm Jaskier. Welcome to The Inkwell," the blushing man said, slender hands held in front of him as if he was a polite air host one second away from leaping out the emergency exit. "How may I help you?"

Geralt's lips tremored.

Yes, he was very, very glad he chose to stay.

"A tattoo," he replied. "On my left upper arm."

He was aware he had a low, gravelly voice that was—intimidating. Ciri would try to record him saying various phrases for her phone sounds. To his dismay, her custom ring tone for him was one of his long, rumbling grunts on repeat.

Jaskier's deadpan expression didn't change. But Geralt noticed those slender hands clenching into fists. Fists of—restraint.

"Well! You're in the right place to get one. Thank you for coming." Jaskier made a face. "As in, _being here_ , not—" Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut.

In the few seconds Jaskier did so, Geralt allowed his lips to curl up.

Jaskier cleared his throat. Opened his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, then said with that overly polite tone, "Do you have any particular design in mind?"

Jaskier's face was somehow even more flushed.

Geralt unbuttoned his suit jacket and reached into its inner pocket for Ciri's drawing. He kept his gaze on Jaskier's face, and so he noticed Jaskier's eyes flitting down from his face. Down his torso to his waist.

He noticed Jaskier's fists become white-knuckled ones.

He noticed Jaskier's tongue flitting out to slide across that plump lower lip.

Oh.

_Oh._

Well, then—it'd been a very, _very_ long time since someone showed blatant desire for him like this. That someone had been his ex-girlfriend, Yennefer, who was now one of his best friends.

She was responsible for nuking websites of any information or photos he didn't want exposed. She was smart and terrifying, and he knew better than to question her connections and methods.

She was in fact the person who'd planted the idea of getting the tattoo to honor Ciri.

She'd been giving him directions to a different tattoo parlor via chat messaging when Ciri had called. He'd been annoyed at Yennefer's insistence he followed exactly where she told him to go, but he'd done so.

If he hadn't, he wouldn't have gotten that lucky parking spot.

He wouldn't have ambled down the street after Ciri's call reminding him she wanted _buttercups_ , drawn by The Inkwell's signboard.

He truly was fated to be here in this place and time, to meet Jaskier.

To gaze into those large blue eyes that were honed on his face again.

He handed Jaskier a folded, white piece of A4 paper. Jaskier was careful to not touch his fingers, but he wasn’t offended by that, now that he knew Jaskier hadn’t stared at him out of disgust or horror.

He was—thrilled by the thought of Jaskier being so attracted to him.

Jaskier was so attracted to him that just touching him right now was too much.

It was a breathtaking revelation, that destiny had chosen this beautiful, silly man to find him so desirable. That there was finally another person in existence who did wish to gaze at him for long.

With lust, with yearning—even after seeing him up-close and in person.

Jaskier unfolded Ciri’s ink drawing. Geralt said nothing. He gazed on at the other man, at the dark, long eyelashes fanning still-flushed cheeks. Jaskier also said nothing while he stared down at the drawing.

Geralt reckoned that buttercups had to be significant to Jaskier, for the tattoo artist to ink them into his skin, to use them for his business signboard. He couldn’t begin to guess why.

But something in him ached at Jaskier’s throat bobbing with a swallow. At the hard blink.

“Buttercups,” Jaskier rasped, still staring down at the drawing. “You want a tattoo of buttercups.”

Geralt tilted his head to one side.

“Yes. In color.” When Jaskier raised those pretty eyes to gaze at him, he gestured at Jaskier’s left bicep. “Perhaps like those. They’re good.”

That sun-bright smile graced Jaskier’s face again. With a fluid twist at the waist, Jaskier raised his left arm for Geralt’s perusal. This close, Geralt could see the muscles of Jaskier’s arms contracting and stretching under all that ink.

“I can do better,” Jaskier murmured.

Geralt craved to slip his fingers under the thick leather choker around Jaskier’s neck. To yank Jaskier to him. Crush their lips together. Crush Jaskier to his body, and never let him go.

“Ciri drew that. But she said it can be in color if I wanted that.”

Jaskier blinked.

“Ciri?”

“Hmmn. The tattoo’s a gift. For my daughter.”

If he hadn’t been gazing so raptly at Jaskier, he would have missed the wavering of Jaskier’s smile. He couldn’t help but feel impressed at how swift Jaskier’s smile recovered, although there was a different light in those blue eyes.

It was a gleam Geralt was very familiar with by now, after everything he’d endured in life. A gleam he’d see in his own eyes whenever he was masochistic enough to stare into a mirror, hearing _fat, ugly freak_ echo in the corridors of his mind.

It was the gleam of disappointment.

But Jaskier had no reason to be disappointed: Geralt was single. He’d stayed that way since amicably breaking up with Yennefer a lifetime ago. After he’d adopted Ciri, he hadn’t given a toss about sex, much less about _romance_.

Now, Geralt simply had to say all that to Jaskier.

Well, if Jaskier gave him the chance to do so.

Jaskier was babbling, gesturing at him to follow him into a room via an open door left of the parlor. He glanced down at his left hand, and saw that Jaskier’s business card was still in its grip. He’d held onto it all this time.

He slipped it into his jacket’s inner pocket. He sauntered behind Jaskier into the room—and halted in silent awe.

The room was much larger than the reception area. The wall facing the door was layered from floor to ceiling with framed drawings, paintings, and photos of tattoos.

It was Jaskier’s portfolio of work. Undeniable proof of his tattooing skills and experience. Geralt detected smiling celebrities in some of the photos: world-famous people he’d also encountered at star-studded parties he very rarely attended.

Did Jaskier react similarly to them?

Did Jaskier also stare at them with such wide eyes, such parted lips, in such stunned silence?

Or was that reaction for Geralt alone?

Perhaps he was a self-centered bastard for wanting that to be true. For wanting Jaskier to look at him that way, and no one else.

But he wanted.

He wanted Jaskier, like he wanted no one else before.

“How would you like me to address you?”

With nitrile gloves on, Jaskier retrieved what Geralt guessed were necessary supplies for the job from a tall shelf. He raised his eyebrows at the disposable razor in Jaskier's hand.

“I need to shave and clean your skin,” Jaskier said, angling his head and also raising his eyebrows. “Well—unless there’s something in your medical history I need to know about? That will make it unsafe for you to get a tattoo?”

Geralt almost let out a mirthless laugh at that.

If there was one thing he could thank his past illness and brutal treatment for, it was that he never had to worry about being sick again.

“No. Nothing.” One end of his lips quirked up. “You’d have to cut off my head to kill me.”

Jaskier gaped at him like a scandalized goldfish.

Jaskier pointed at him with a forefinger, then said, “I have no idea whether you’re joking or not.” He wagged that finger in the air. “But there will be _no_ beheadings today!”

Geralt’s lips quirked up at both ends this time, with a rare warmth in his chest.

“Very messy, yes.”

Jaskier squinted at him with pouted lips.

“If you say you’re speaking from direct experience, I’ll—” Jaskier sputtered, then made a face. “I will pretend I never heard it, because I want to tattoo buttercups on you.”

_And I want to be close to you._

But Geralt didn’t say that.

Instead, he cleared his throat.

“My name is Geralt,” he said, answering Jaskier’s initial question.

Jaskier gazed at him with soft eyes that ought to be registered as lethal weapons to the thundering thing in his chest.

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, his sweet face also softening.

Jaskier spoke his name as if savoring the finest, rarest meal. He didn’t know how to deal with that, with the expanding warmth in his chest that felt like soul-deep sunshine after a decades-long downpour.

They stared at each other across the room in a taut yet heady hush.

They’d only met minutes ago—but Geralt now felt as if they’d known each other for decades. As if they’d already known each other for decades in other lives, other universes.

Perhaps they had. Perhaps in one of these universes, Jaskier had gazed at him, and already knew him.

Perhaps, in that universe so different yet so similar, Jaskier had gazed at him with wide eyes and parted lips—and already loved him at first sight.

It was an exquisite dream. A dream he wished was real.

But he knew better than to mistake lust for love, at his current age.

Jaskier broke their intense eye contact with an elegant turn of that dark-haired head. Geralt wasn’t discouraged by that, for Jaskier’s face was an adorable shade of red again.

“You’ll, uhm, have to take off your clothes.”

Straight-faced, Geralt was ready for what came next.

Jaskier swiveled around with flailing hands and exclaimed, “I mean, to expose your left arm! Not that I’m expecting you to take off _all_ your clothes, you can just—” He flapped those gloved hands up and down. “Take off your jacket and shirt and—put your waistcoat back on?!”

Geralt was torn between shaking his head and letting his tremoring lips curve up. Beautiful and _silly_ didn’t begin to describe Jaskier.

He hadn’t felt like smiling so many times in—he couldn’t recall the last time he’d genuinely smiled at all before meeting Jaskier.

“Hmmn.”

He spied an assortment of hangers dangling from a wooden coat rack mounted to another wall. He ambled to it, acutely aware of Jaskier’s gaze on him. He deliberately averted face while stripping off his black suit jacket, not out of shyness, but to embolden Jaskier to stare on.

He hung his jacket on one of the hangers. He took his time unbuttoning his grey waistcoat, feeling the buttons pop under his tingling fingers. He hung it on another hanger.

Jaskier stared on at him.

In the taut, exhilarating hush, he could hear Jaskier’s soft, erratic breaths.

The lack of vulnerability he felt surprised him. Even with Yennefer, he’d been tentative in being naked in the light: he still couldn’t forget the repugnance other people had showed at his numerous scars, how they’d flinched from him.

He supposed Jaskier wasn’t other people.

He stripped off the rest of his tailored armor. His white dress shirt's buttons went pop, pop, pop under his trembling fingers. This shirt was tight. He had to flex his shoulders as he stripped it off, but the second, prolonged flex had nothing to do with getting unclothed.

His wolf medallion glinted on his bared chest under the cool ceiling light. He inhaled, then exhaled twice as slow. He turned around.

Jaskier's marvelously tattooed arms were slack at his sides. Jaskier stared at him with wide, enthralled eyes, with parted, quivering lips.

It was probably his imagination that those bright blues were glistening. It was impossible for someone to be so—moved by the mere sight of a scarred, old man like him stripping down to the waist.

Wasn’t it?

He couldn’t tell. Everything Jaskier had done so far had surprised him.

“Jaskier?”

It was the first time Geralt said the tattoo artist’s name. It seemed as loud as a gunshot to Jaskier: with a gasp, Jaskier jolted from head to toes, his hands flying up to clutch that hirsute chest. A high-pitched sound burst from his mouth.

“I’m, oh dear—I need—”

Jaskier was a big puppy in human form. A big, dramatic puppy.

Geralt allowed the grin he’d been fighting to win as he watched Jaskier frantically rushing around the room, preparing an adjustable, black massage chair/bed with armrests, setting up a work station for his tools.

By the gods, Jaskier was doing all that while wearing black leather trousers that fitted over an ample arse like a second skin.

Did Jaskier realize how he _looked_ while bent over like that?

“You’re very lucky, you know,” Jaskier said over his shoulder.

Geralt knew. Oh, he did.

“I would have had to turn you away if another client hadn’t suddenly canceled.”

Geralt’s grin faded, but his eyes were still crinkled at the corners.

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” Jaskier added, fiddling with a black-and-silver tattoo machine. “She’d booked the whole day. Paid in advance days ago. But then she messaged. Said she’d changed her mind.” Jaskier made a face, then said, “She messaged just minutes before you showed up, actually.” Jaskier made another face, shrugged. Returned to doing whatever it was he was doing.

Geralt stared at him.

There was—something going on here that Geralt could sense, but couldn’t see. Was it coincidence that Jaskier was booked the whole day today, and thus wouldn’t have taken on any other clients? Coincidence, that his client canceled just in time for him to be available for Geralt?

Or were these more signs Geralt was right: that destiny had arranged everything to bring him and Jaskier together today? That this world would be kind to him for once?

Either way, he was indeed lucky.

He was in the presence of a beautiful man who somehow found him beautiful too.

Jaskier petted the seat of the adjustable chair with a hand.

“Time for a shave and clean,” Jaskier said, sitting down on a black, rolling stool beside the chair.

Jaskier blushed yet again, but didn’t panic or flail. With tremoring lips, Geralt walked to the chair and sat in it.

He sank with a soundless sigh into the black, supple leather. The high-quality chair didn’t creak under his hefty bulk.

Jaskier cleared his throat. Aimed those big blue eyes at Geralt’s left upper arm and nowhere else.

Geralt had no qualms about staring at Jaskier’s red face.

Jaskier gently cleaned his skin with rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad.

“Normally, I would make a stencil. But since you want color, I’ll, uhm, have to make some adjustments to the drawing.”

“That’s fine,” Geralt murmured.

“I’ll draw it freehand with permanent markers first.” Jaskier glanced at him. “Is that okay?”

Geralt needed a minute to collect himself. It was only now, close as they were, that he realized Jaskier was wearing black eyeliner.

He wanted to smudge the black lines with his fingers. To smudge them with Jaskier’s tears of pleasure.

He stared into Jaskier’s mesmerizing eyes. It was elating to have Jaskier stare back into his amber eyes, eyes he knew were peculiar to some, monstrous to others.

“I trust you,” he rasped, keenly aware of Jaskier’s delectable body inches away.

It was true. He did trust Jaskier.

It was obvious Jaskier didn’t hear those three words often: those big blues went round, then softened with something Geralt fervently wished was more than just lust.

Jaskier bowed his head. Sucked that lower lip in and bit it. Broke into a heart-aching, sweet smile.

“Well, then.”

Jaskier raised his head to gaze at Geralt again, eyes heavy-lidded.

“I’ll give you something to be proud of, hm?”

Geralt refused to blink. He didn’t want to miss a second of this intimate moment.

_You already did, when you looked at me and saw a person._

“Hmmn.”

He smiled back.

"You said it's a gift for your daughter? Ciri?”

The tattoo machine's low buzz was soothing to Geralt. Ciri had warned him getting a tattoo might hurt—but she didn’t know what had happened to him as a boy. Getting a tattoo was apparently like a baby poking him with a tiny finger.

"Yes. Ciri is short for Cirilla."

He would have fallen asleep if not for the fact that the most beautiful, silly, intriguing man was turning a part of his body into a work of art. It pleased him very much.

"That's really sweet,” Jaskier murmured.

A significant pause followed.

“You and your wife must love her very much."

Jaskier’s voice was casual and steady. It betrayed nothing, unlike his eyes that flickered with that gleam of disappointment.

Geralt still stared at Jaskier’s face. He waited until Jaskier was wiping away excess ink with a gauze pad.

"I'm not married. Ciri is my adopted daughter."

Nothing on Jaskier’s appealing face betrayed his feelings. Jaskier’s gloved hand clenching around the now stained gauze pad did so.

"Oh. Uh." Jaskier cleared his throat. Turned to throw away the pad. "You and your girlfriend, then."

Geralt pressed his lips together to stop their tremors.

"Don't have a girlfriend."

Jaskier’s hands hovered in the air next to Geralt’s upper arm. One held the tattoo machine. The other clutched a fresh gauze pad.

"Oh. Uhm. Well. You and your, uhm—" A sharp breath. "Boyfriend."

Even with his lips pressed together, an amused smile fought its way through. He stared at Jaskier until he gazed at him from under those thick lashes.

"Don't have a boyfriend." He paused for three suspenseful seconds. "Yet."

His declaration had a stupendous effect on Jaskier.

Jaskier gaped at him like a startled rabbit yanked out of a magician’s hat. Jaskier sucked in a ragged breath. Let it out to suck in an even more ragged one.

“Oh,” he squeaked.

Then he pivoted on his rolling stool to calmly set down his tattoo machine on the work station.

Then, just as calmly, he pivoted around to face Geralt again, his gloved hands clenched into fists on his lap. Jaskier sat ramrod straight.

Geralt had to summon an extra amount of willpower to not grin at Jaskier’s wide-eyed, pursed-lipped expression of absolute amazement.

“I am sorry,” Jaskier said in that overly polite tone. “My brain requires a few minutes to process the five magnificent words that just came out of your gorgeous mouth.”

Geralt donned a deadpan expression.

“All right.”

“Please understand, I am trying very, very hard not to kiss you right now.”

Yet again, Geralt’s lips tremored hard. His deadpan expression won.

“As _gorgeous_ as you are, it would be very unprofessional of me to not finish this tattoo.”

Geralt nodded. “Of course.”

“So you will behave until then.”

Four seconds passed before Geralt replied, “Of course.”

Jaskier squinted at him. He gazed back with an exaggerated expression of innocence that Ciri would envy.

Jaskier bit his lower lip to stop himself from smiling, but Geralt saw that smile shine from those crinkled, twinkling eyes anyway.

The anticipation between them burgeoned.

The hours crawled by for Geralt. Now and then, Jaskier wiped the tattoo needles with a paper towel then dipped them in a bowl of water to rinse them between colors.

Jaskier had stayed true to Ciri’s drawing but also refined it, bringing it to convincing life on Geralt's skin.

It was pleasing and perfect. Just like the artist whose smooth cheeks were reddening again under his unblinking regard.

His eyes followed that pink, wet tongue that flitted out to glide across that plump lower lip yet again.

Jaskier had very kissable lips. Very soft, sweet lips.

He was still dazed by Jaskier’s palpable attraction to him. But he also understood on a cerebral level why that attraction was possible: he wasn’t the boy he’d been in his recuperation years. He wasn’t the _fat, ugly freak_ other boys had ridiculed and shoved at school daily.

Today he was, as one tabloid put it, a “muscle-bound Goliath with a geezer’s hair and a face of a god”.

Tabloids were fucking ridiculous—but _that_ one was at least right about his brawny build. He’d spent years transforming himself in the gym, working out for hours at a time.

At one point, Vesemir had worried enough to send his brothers to drag him out of the gym. Literally.

Eskel had frowned in concern at him. Lambert had rolled his eyes. Exclaimed, _it’s not your body that needs to change, Geralt!_ Tapped his own temple with a finger. _THIS does!_

It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realize Lambert was referring to his mind, not his hair color. In his only defense, he’d been an eighteen-year-old boor.

Decades later, Lambert’s point remained painfully true.

Sometimes he still saw himself as—the boy he’d been.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore on the outside. It was just taking him much longer to believe he wasn’t that boy anymore on the inside too.

And perhaps—he was a tad too harsh on himself about his physical appearance, if Jaskier could gaze at him with such sincere, tender eyes.

“I hope you’re not offended by this,” Jaskier murmured, “but your staring is—” He lowered his eyes. Cleared his throat. “Very distracting.”

Geralt deserved an award for his deadpan face.

"Perhaps I could set up a tablet and movie? Or TV show? Let you watch something good."

Geralt waited until Jaskier was gazing into his eyes again, helplessly pulled back by the invisible force thrumming between them like a harmonious song. Their song.

"I already am,” he rasped.

If someone had sprung that line on him, he would have rolled his eyes like Lambert.

But for Jaskier, the three words kindled that endearing blush again.

Geralt basked in the bashful bow of Jaskier’s head, in its shake from side to side. In the mellow giggle spilling from those lovely lips. The fluttering of those dark lashes. That spreading, beatific smile.

It wasn’t difficult this time to allow his own lips to arch into a similar smile.

He shivered when Jaskier rested a gloved hand on his bare forearm.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier eventually said, still smiling, still flushed. “I’m not usually a—giggling _mess_ like this. But you’re—"

Geralt leaned over the chair’s armrest, closing the distance between them by inches.

He murmured, “I’m what?”

Jaskier sat upright. Caught his gaze once more with those pretty blues. Jaskier’s expression softened to one that made that thundering thing in his chest do acrobatics.

"You really are the most gorgeous man I've laid eyes on in my entire life. Even your _voice_ is gorgeous.” Jaskier gestured at the nearly-done tattoo. "And you—you like buttercups!"

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"And—that's a big deal because?"

Oh, that beatific smile was back.

"My babcia—my grandmother is Polish. She's the one who named me." Jaskier rolled his eyes at himself. “In Polish, Jaskier means buttercup."

Geralt stared at the other man, and made a solemn vow to himself.

From now on, until the day he died, he would always love buttercups.

Geralt set his facial features into a ferocious, wide-eyed expression. Instead of fear, all he saw in Jaskier’s crinkled eyes was amusement.

“I _love_ buttercups,” he growled, the way a warrior would an iconic line before the battle with his arch-nemesis.

It did what he’d hoped.

With his black-lined eyes squeezed shut, rearing back while holding onto Geralt’s forearm, Jaskier erupted into dulcet laughter. The room reverberated with it. So did Geralt.

Although his own laughter was silent, his shoulders shook with it. He felt it in every inch of his face.

It really felt good to make someone laugh, someone happy, for once.

Jaskier smacked him hard on his forearm. It was akin to being smacked by a child, but that wasn’t Jaskier’s fault: his scarred body was also a mutated one. He _hadn’t_ been joking about death by decapitation.

“Let me finish this! You promised you’d behave.”

“Hmmn.”

Jaskier shot him a mock glower utterly ruined by the fondness in those twinkling eyes.

While Jaskier was inking the final details, Geralt said, “The lute. What does it mean to you?”

The tattoo machine’s needles went still.

“You have it on your arm. On your signboard.”

“Oh, uhm.” Jaskier made a face. “I own one.” His expression shifted into a self-deprecating one. “I—actually completed my first album of songs two months ago. It’s—” He shrugged. “I suppose you could categorize it as alt-folk rock.”

Geralt blinked. Ah, of course. A tattoo artist wouldn’t use a lute. But one with musical talent could.

“I’ve uploaded it to various digital platforms. It’s—” Jaskier grimaced. Resumed tattooing Geralt’s arm. “The royalties aren’t so great. I’d need—” He bit his lower lip hard. “Gods, I’d need _millions_ of streams of my songs just to earn a decent wage from my music.”

Geralt frowned. He was clueless about music streaming, but those numbers certainly seemed unreasonable.

“And I don’t have the clout to get it produced and promoted on a wide scale, so—” For the first time, a bittersweet smile emblazoned Jaskier’s face. “That’s why I’m still here, scraping what I can while doing something else I love."

Geralt’s frown waned into a pensive expression. He stared at Jaskier.

“Which platforms?”

Again, the tattoo needles went still.

Jaskier glanced at him with wide eyes.

"You—you want to listen to my album?"

The warmed thing in Geralt’s chest throbbed at the childlike hope in Jaskier’s voice.

“Yes. I don’t listen to music much. But—” His lips quirked up. “I could grow to like it. After listening to yours.”

Oh, Jaskier’s eyes were glistening wetly again.

Geralt didn’t understand why Jaskier was so moved by the mere thought of _him_ listening to his music. Perhaps it was because he didn’t have an artist’s soul.

What he did have was the soul of a fighter.

And a fuckload of money.

He could gather his financial advisers in a few days at his mansion. Instruct them to reserve funds for Jaskier. Calculate how much was required to hire the necessary professionals, studios, and whatever else Jaskier needed.

Five million? Ten million?

Yennefer would help, too.

He had all the money in the world to help make Jaskier’s musical dream come true.

But for now, he kept this plan to himself. He didn’t need to listen to Jaskier’s album to know Jaskier had a stellar singing voice. He could hear proof of it every time Jaskier spoke.

“There. Done.”

Geralt didn’t point out Jaskier’s tremulous voice. He gazed down at his left bicep—and his chest swelled with the pride Jaskier had promised he would give him.

The tattoo of buttercups was splendid: it looked so real that he could almost pluck the golden flowers off his skin.

“I have to put aftercare lotion on it,” Jaskier murmured with a steadier voice. “Then bandage it.”

Geralt nodded, still gazing down at the tattoo with a wonder he’d never felt before. His numerous scars were diminished in comparison to the tattoo.

For once, he was beautiful.

The hush that blanketed him and Jaskier was so dense that he could feel its weight on his shoulders. He sat quietly while Jaskier applied the lotion then placed a rectangular bandage over the tattoo.

Jaskier slowly stripped off the nitrile gloves.

Geralt stayed where he was.

Jaskier rested a bare hand on his forearm. Goosebumps erupted across his skin at the heat of Jaskier’s palm, the clutch of Jaskier’s callused, slender fingers.

The white wolf on Jaskier’s forearm stared at him with large, amber eyes just like his.

He murmured, “Why a white wolf?”

Jaskier’s fingers clenched around part of his meaty forearm. Jaskier drew in a breath that stuttered at the end.

“When I was boy,” Jaskier replied with an equally low voice, “I started dreaming about a white wolf.”

Geralt was torn between staring at the white wolf and at Jaskier.

“I would be walking down a path, and it would appear from behind me and walk beside me. It was an enormous wolf. But I was never afraid of it.” Jaskier’s eyelids lowered to half-mast. “The environment and time of day always changed with each dream. But the wolf never did.” Jaskier also stared down at the white wolf on his forearm. “It became—my friend, over the years. Became more detailed as I grew older. When I learned how to draw, I’d make sketches of it in notebooks.” His lips curled in a tiny smile. “Then I began writing poems about it.”

“And those poems became songs,” Geralt rasped.

Jaskier nodded. His throat bobbed above his leather choker.

Once more, Geralt irrationally felt like sprinting out the door. It was _impossible_ Jaskier could know about his childhood daydreaming.

About the White Wolf’s loyal bard.

In another universe, where he was powerful, where he hunted beasts and made the world a safer place, he had a loyal bard who walked beside him. A companion who staved off screams in his nightmares with babbling. A friend who sat beside him, and loved him when no one else would.

He stared at the beautiful, silly, intriguing man who sat beside him now.

Who gazed at him with eyes that glistened even more wetly.

Whose face crumpled before being concealed behind those slender hands.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier rasped. “I can’t keep this from you anymore.”

The whiplash Geralt experienced made him blink hard.

What? What did Jaskier mean—

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you. I—” Jaskier lowered his hands with a smack to his lap. Oh, the eyeliner was smudged, but not with tears of pleasure. “I found photos. Online. Years ago."

Geralt blinked again.

“They were probably paparazzi photos. You were in—” Jaskier flailed those skilled, slender hands at the length of his torso. “A Hawaiian shirt and knee-length khakis, and you were glaring at the camera—”

Geralt blinked _again_.

“And you were—gorgeous!”

Geralt stared at Jaskier, and wondered if it was possible to love someone so much after knowing them for mere hours.

“The blurriness was probably a blessing considering how _hideous_ the print was but _you_ —” Jaskier pointed a finger at him. “You just had to be so _gorgeous_.”

Jaskier slapped his hands to his own temples. “So of course I had to find more photos of you! I joined every online fan club I could find! Nobody knew your name or age or what your job really was or if you were really a Pastafarian—but I didn’t give a fuck about any of that!”

Geralt’s brow creased in bafflement. _Pastafarian?_

“I just wanted to see more of you.” Jaskier covered those smudged eyes with both hands. “I just wanted to collect every photo of you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I wanted to know more about you. I wanted to _know_ you.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up at Jaskier letting out a frustrated roar.

“But there’s this _arsehole_ who keeps removing your photos!” Jaskier roared again. Flung his arms out. “Every single time! I’d find new ones, save them, go back to the website for more—and they’re all _gone!_ ”

Yes, Geralt truly deserved an award for his deadpan face.

“I got so fucking _mad_ , I ranted about it on all my social media accounts! And you know _what?!_ ”

“What?”

It was probably a bad time for Geralt to comment that Jaskier so fired up like this was—arousing. So he didn’t.

“They had the bloody nerve to message me!” Jaskier snarled through his teeth. “Had the _cheek_ to ask me if I was a _dangerous stalker_ who wanted to hurt you!”

Geralt could visualize Yennefer sitting in front of her computers, cackling and lobbing popcorn into her mouth.

“Of course I wasn’t! I damn well told the pillock that!” Like a pricked balloon, Jaskier went from being a furious firecracker to a slumped, sighing puppy in seconds. “Oh gods, it was embarrassing. I sent them eighty-four messages while drunk. And my tattooed arse was in one.”

Geralt didn't know what to feel about his ex-girlfriend seeing Jaskier’s _tattooed arse_ before he did.

“So what I’m saying is—” Jaskier’s eyes were welling up again. “Since I saw your photos, you and the white wolf in my dreams are one and the same to me. My album's about you."

Jaskier lowered his glistening eyes and bit his lip.

“I’m just a total loser obsessed with you for years. You can’t imagine what it was like for me to see you standing there in my parlor. The most perfect gift from the gods. Just like that, my heart was done for. At your mercy."

Very rarely in his long life was Geralt rendered speechless. Jaskier thought _he_ was the most perfect gift from the gods?

Oh no, Jaskier had it the wrong way around.

Jaskier had seen him in a _Hawaiian shirt and knee-length khakis_ —and loved him at first sight, anyway.

He glanced at the white wolf on Jaskier’s forearm. At its large, amber eyes that _were_ his.

The white wolf _was_ him.

Jaskier had willingly tattooed his mark onto his body. A permanent, undeniable mark.

And he—he had willingly tattooed _Jaskier’s_ mark onto his own body.

His tattoo of buttercups tingled with a bone-deep joy.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier choked out. Gazed up at him with big, wet puppy eyes. “This is the part where you tell me to stay away, isn’t it?”

Geralt stared back with an impassive face.

This beautiful, silly, _silly_ man.

Geralt slowly stretched out his right hand towards Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier didn’t flinch. Didn’t move an inch.

Geralt kept his intense gaze locked with Jaskier’s as he slipped two fingers under Jaskier’s leather choker. He felt Jaskier’s pulse speed up like a train.

“Come here.”

Jaskier didn’t look away. He fumbled for the chair’s armrest and pushed it up and out of the way.

Geralt gently tugged on the choker. Towards him.

Jaskier’s eyes went round as saucers. A frayed breath escaped parted, quivering lips.

"I'm going to kiss you now,” Geralt growled.

With Geralt’s fingers still under his choker, Jaskier climbed onto Geralt’s lap, visibly trembling. The chair took both their weights with nary a creak.

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him tight to his nude torso.

"Please do,” Jaskier whispered.

Something in Geralt howled when their lips finally, _finally_ crashed together in a ferocious, open-mouthed kiss. He carded his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and tugged it—and the primal thing in him howled even louder at Jaskier’s euphoric moan.

He licked into Jaskier’s mouth. Sucked on Jaskier’s juicy, wet lips. Nipped them with his fangs. Sucked them again to ease the sting. He rejoiced in Jaskier giving him as good as he got, licking, sucking and nibbling his lips, running those slender fingers through his long hair, fisting possessive hands in it.

Jaskier was beautiful, so bloody beautiful as he was.

And so was he.

Jaskier’s eyeliner was a smeared disaster now. Jaskier was smiling, and smiling, and so was he with his amber eyes that were neither odd or monstrous.

Jaskier pressed their foreheads together. Sighed softly.

"I love the way you just—sit in my chair and make brooding look bewitching.”

Geralt’s eyes crinkled at the corners. The words resonated in him on a cosmic scale.

"I brood as well in bed,” he replied, deadpan.

Jaskier ran adoring fingers through his chest hair, still smiling.

“Hmm.” Jaskier sat back, just enough for them to see each other’s flushed, gratified faces. "I think a—hands-on demonstration of that is in prompt order. Don't you?"

“How far is your place from here?”

Jaskier let out a chuckle that made Geralt’s toes curl in his black leather shoes.

“Oh, my gorgeous gargantua,” Jaskier rasped into his mouth. “I have a bed upstairs.”

He captured Jaskier’s lips with his own once more. He captured Jaskier’s ample buttocks with both hands, giving them a firm squeeze.

This time, he didn’t bother fighting his content grin at all.

Jaskier was snoring softly against Geralt's chest, warm breath ruffling its dark grey curls. Jaskier was snuggled into his side. Hugged tight to him with both his arms.

He stared up at the clean plaster ceiling.

The sun was starting to rise outside their cozy sanctuary.

He longed to kiss Jaskier again. To kiss every inch of Jaskier's sinewy, tattoed arms again. To be in so deep he could never get out again.

But Jaskier needed the rest. His beautiful, silly, intriguing, perfect lover was still here with him, under the stripes of warm sunlight.

Jaskier was still here with him, even after seeing all his scars in the light.

He was still beautiful.

He pressed a kiss to a smooth forehead. He glanced at the window and the gap between the teal curtains.

Sometimes, cracks in armor weren't bad, for they let the light in.

Moving only his right arm, he reached for his phone on the bedside table. He brought up his favorite contacts. Clicked on a ravishing, violet-eyed face.

Yennefer picked up after four seconds.

He said, "There was no other tattoo parlor, was there? I checked the online maps."

Yennefer was silent for just as long.

Then she retorted, "I have absolutely, completely, totally no idea what you're going on about."

Geralt's lips tremored.

"How dare you accuse me of whatever it is you're accusing me of, you churlish cretin."

Geralt's lips tremored hard.

"Yen," he murmured.

"What," she growled.

"Have you seen that parrot-and-palm trees Hawaiian shirt of mine?"

Yennefer was dead silent for at least nine seconds.

"Are you serious."

"I need it."

His tone was deadpan. Yennefer couldn't see the way his lips quivered with mirth.

"Are you _serious_ , Geralt?! Eskel bought that for you as a bloody joke!" She gasped. "No."

Geralt's shoulders began to shake. "Yes."

" _No_. No way. _Those_ photos were the ones that made the overly dramatic twit fall for you?!"

He sucked in both lips to keep very, very quiet.

It took her three seconds to realize her blunder.

"Yen," he choked out, his cheeks hurting.

"Unbelievable. I _still_ have no idea what the hell you're on about, you sentimental berk." She let out a huff like an irate dragon. "As if Ciri and I give a fuck about you being happy."

His cheeks were still hurting long after Yennefer ended the call.

He calmly placed his phone back on the bedside table. He resettled his arm around Jaskier—who was awake.

He felt Jaskier's lightly stubbled cheek rub his chest the way a puppy nuzzled their most precious person.

His cheeks hurt, but that was okay because they were hurting from delight and hope.

He tightened his embrace around his somnolent lover. He felt the smile that bunched Jaskier's cheek like a beam as warm as the growing stripes of sunshine across their tangled legs on the bed.

Jaskier released a long, low moan of utter repletion.

"Geralt," Jaskier murmured with that mellifluous voice he would always cherish. "Who was that?"

His chest heaved with a sigh. He shut his eyes, and cradled the most perfect gift from his two goddesses.

"A good friend."

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on Geralt and Jaskier in this story: What I love to explore and dive deep into as a writer is perception. Our perception determines how we think, how we live, how we interact with the world and with others. Our unique, individual experiences influence that perception, and therefore there are multitudes of perceptions about any given thing or person at any time. 
> 
> There had been some fuss when Cavill had been cast as Geralt. People thought he was "too handsome" to play a character that his own creator had described as "hideous". A valid point--but for me, he eventually became the perfect guy to play Geralt: I'm able to explore the perception of a gorgeous-looking character who was hated and ostracized for being what he was anyway. What did a prolonged lifetime of pain, loneliness, and loathing from others do to a person? Being good-looking was no guarantee of a suffering-free soul. It's absolutely, sadly possible for Geralt to appear a handsome god to others, but a hideous monster to himself for a whole host of reasons.
> 
> As for Jaskier, I admit his behavior here is a good-natured poke--a love letter, even--to fandom in general. If you've ever obsessed over a celeb, you've very likely done some of the things he had: collecting tons of photos, joining online communities to gush over said celeb, and oh, I dunno, writing stories and making art about them or characters they play. 😉 I'm sure plenty of fans have had fandom-related tattoos done too. (Don't get me started on fandom wank ala public, epic rants and private message taunts. 😂) And I'm sure, as diverse as fandom and fans are, there will be a wide gamut of reactions to Jaskier's behavior regarding Geralt. Was it creepy? Was it relatable? Was it cute, even?
> 
> Either way, this is a work of fiction--and destiny saw fit to bring together a big, old, crotchety man with white hair, amber eyes, scars who just wants to be loved as he is and a beautiful, silly, obsessed tattoo artist who can play a lute and sing about his beloved White Wolf. 🐺🎻


End file.
